Finally Saying Goodbye. A Personal Journey (2019)

Each year for the past few years, I try to create a Memorial Day post to honor those who have paid the ultimate price for our freedoms, sharing links with you to some of those I knew and served with. But this year (2019) is a little different as I thought about this post for weeks. Yes, weeks. You see, over the years, I never walked into Arlington and said my "goodbye" to these brothers. I wasn't ready. Some may understand this. Others may not. Loss is always a personal experience, each unique on its own. To me, as silly as it may sound, if I didn't say goodbye, just maybe they still were here. Among us. Perhaps with their families or other friends. Out training or just doing something they loved. To say goodbye would remove this fa?ade I had built and expose the reality. They are gone. Gone and not coming back. After years of encouragement from my wife, this year I finally made the trip.

Earlier this year, I was planning to visit the Marine Corps Museum with some friends. My son Austin (11) was coming with me. With him old enough now to possibly understand what I was going to share, there were no more excuses. I was very nervous the night before and wanted to reach out to some brothers who were in the area. But I knew this was something I needed to do with just me and Austin. I wanted my son to focus on the headstone, me, my words, and the reactions that would ultimately come.

We arrived in the park in the morning shortly after it opened. As I pulled into the parking lot, the lot was full of cars and buses, but there was one corner spot open as soon as I passed the gate. Almost like saying to me, "We have been waiting for you." As Austin and I sat in the very long line of tourist groups and visitors, both Austin and I were quiet. We didn't say words until we were just about to enter security. I looked at him and said, "This is going to be hard for me, but I have to do it." He looked somewhat confused but gave a small grin. His way of showing support without genuinely understanding why taking these steps was so hard.

As we entered the park, I walked into the store, giving a dollar to the cashier and asking for one roll of pennies. You see, we already had dimes, but we needed pennies. Lots of them. One of the cashiers hesitated, but I said, "My son and I have lots of people to visit today." The other cashier quickly took my dollar, providing me a penny roll and two quarters in return. With no other stops to make, we began walking towards Section 60, Persian Gulf. We followed the map, approaching our first stop, Staff Sergeant Anthony Goodwin. Tony was a high school classmate of mine, and we both were in Navy JROTC. He was very well-liked, adventurous, and would do anything for his friends. These are the characteristics that made him an excellent infantry Marine. His loss was felt because it not only affects you in the present but reaches back into your childhood. And it hurt. I gripped onto Tony's headstone so hard I thought I would have broken a piece of it off. As tears fell down my face, kneeling in front of Tony's grave, I shared a few stories with Austin. As he listened, he had a nervous look mixed with sadness. He was doing his best to hold back tears, but a small one broke the corner of his eye. As we left Tony, we placed three pennies and one dime on his headstone. The pennies represent that we visited: one for me, one for Austin, and one for fellow high school classmates who still feel the loss of Tony today. The dime represents that we served together.

The next stop was "The Lion of Fallujah," Major Doug Zembiec. Doug was a Naval Academy graduate, an All-American wrestler, but to know him was to see this fact: this man was 100% Marine. Doug and I were instructors at Basic Reconnaissance Course at Fort Story, Va. Before Doug, I felt I was the senior propaganda officer at the schoolhouse, bestowing Marine Corps history upon our students. But Doug took "Esprit de Corps" to a whole other level. We both LOVED when training days fell on 10 November. You see, the rest of the Marine Corps might be off, but Recon was still training. On these days, no mercy was shown. But no matter what, once the last training event was completed, regardless of weather or time of day, we would have a cake-cutting ceremony at the end of it. Cake, sword, the reading of Lejeune's and the current Marine Corps Commandant's message, and recognizing the oldest and youngest Marines. No shortcuts. This is something I continue to do with my family each Marine Corps Birthday. Sitting there in front of his headstone, all of these memories and many others went through my mind. And more tears came. Before my trip, Sara made Austin do a report on Doug to help him understand who we would be visiting. As I talked to Austin, I saw his watering eyes on Doug. Things were starting to become more apparent to him. Before we continued our journey, we left two pennies and one dime on Doug's headstone.

The next stop was Lt. Colonel Kevin Shea. Kevin and I served at First Force Reconnaissance Company in the early '90s. Kevin, an Air Force Academy graduate, loved being a Marine, loved rugby, and loved his Marines. Kevin was a hands-on leader as he genuinely wanted to know every Marine in his charge. Being barely 20 or so, I was like, "Why is this dude all in my business?" But on some tough days, you were so glad you had a leader like Kevin. It's hard enough to be a young grunt trying to grow up in a Force Recon unit. But it truly sucks as a young communicator still trying to find your place. Kevin was always encouraging, reinforcing that he knew you were very capable of success. Years went by, and I had not seen Kevin since 1994. In 2004, I wanted to pursue the Marine Corps Warrant Officer program. Kevin wrote my very first recommendation. In October of 2004, my Force Recon Platoon moved up to support the upcoming fight in Fallujah. As my platoon commander was visiting with the leadership, I was walking around the regimental headquarters for RCT-1, and I saw it: Kevin's picture. Not being fully aware, I thought Kevin was still present as the Regimental Communications Officer. I pulled one of the Marines walking by and asked him, "Where is Shea at?" The Marine responded, "He was killed, Gunny." I was stunned. Blood went to my feet, feeling as if I didn't take a breath for hours. Because of where we were and what was to come, I just suppressed these emotions and moved on. The only person I shared the loss with was my platoon commander. It was brief, to the point, unemotional. Then came this day. It all came out. Close to fifteen years later, I was now ready to express this loss. Gripping the headstone was the instrument of Kevin merely putting his hand on my shoulder, seeing his grin (the Kevin grin), and saying these words: "You can do this, Brian. And it's going to be okay." Those words I carried with me not only through my entire Marine Corps career but in daily life. I shared much of the above with Austin. After a few special moments with Kevin, we wiped our tears, placed two pennies, and one dime on Kevin's headstone.

The next stop was Sergeant Major Joseph Ellis. Joe and I served multiple times together at First Force Reconnaissance Company. We both deployed with the company during Desert Storm, and I even had an opportunity to be in the same platoon with him before moving on to another platoon. If there was ever to be a definition of what a Force Reconnaissance Communicator is, you could write these words: "Go see Joseph Ellis." Joe looked out for his fellow communicators. He was not only a mentor but your brother and many times your father. Joe pushed me in the most critical forming years of my career and impressed upon me what it is to be a Marine. No matter your job, you are ALWAYS a Marine. I carried this lesson from Joe and many others throughout my career. Many times in my career, on patrol, in a school, on a mission, when in doubt or unsure, these words would come to mind: "What would Joe do?" Because Joe would figure it out. Joe would push through it. And Joe didn't take shit. Joe was always teaching and the reason I wanted to become an Instructor at the Basic Reconnaissance Course. "Don't get comfortable, Plummer!" I shared these stories of Joe with Austin. More tears. More pauses. A few more moments, then, as with the others, we placed two pennies and one dime.

As I shared the stories of Tony, Doug, Kevin, and Joe with Austin, I was sharing with him honest and raw emotion. The pain of loss. The pain that never truly goes away. But as I found out on this day, it is a pain that can ease. It's okay to say, "goodbye." Though they are no longer with us physically, they are with us in our daily actions and memories. And in the words of Kevin, "It's going to be okay."

For the next hour or so, we continued our journey visiting the graves of others: men and women, soldiers, sailors, Marines, airmen, and public servants. I like to believe in this part of our journey is when I shared the most important lesson with him. I said to Austin, "I hope one day you will come back. A roll of pennies in hand, walking the grounds, stopping at headstones even for a moment, placing a penny, and saying, 'Thank you.' For those pennies mean much more. The park uses the pennies as donations for the upkeep. The penny provides comfort to a loved one, a fellow service member, a son, a daughter, or just a friend when they come to visit and see it resting on that headstone. The penny symbolizes a little weight of the loss that you let go of when you visited. Its value might be one cent, but when that penny lands on that headstone, it becomes priceless. More tears, a hug, then smiles.

Below are links to those I spoke of and others. Give them a toast and honor them today. And more importantly, "Never Forget!"

https://www.arlingtoncemetery.net/algoodwin.htm

https://arlingtoncemetery.net/dazembiec.htm

https://www.arlingtoncemetery.net/kmshea.htm

https://www.arlingtoncemetery.net/jjellis.htm